


ain’t that a kick in the head?

by orinscrivello



Category: Little Shop of Horrors (1986), Little Shop of Horrors - All Media Types, Little Shop of Horrors - Menken/Ashman
Genre: F/M, He sucks, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, orin is better au, orin is.. mediocre at best actually, theyre in love sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:27:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orinscrivello/pseuds/orinscrivello
Summary: 1950s suckers.
Relationships: Audrey Fulquard/Orin Scrivello, Audrey Fulquard/Seymour Krelborn, Seymour Krelborn/Orin Scrivello
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	ain’t that a kick in the head?

The sky was dark by the time Orin showed up at Mushnik’s. His watch read 5:39, which was early—he had told Audrey he'd be there at six. Orin’d gotten off work early. One of his patients had straight up left, bolting out the door with the bib still around his neck. It was honestly fine, though Orin had been a little miffed about it, because he still got paid. It was a brisk, late- September evening, and Orin had taken his motorcycle as usual. He revved the engine outside, just for kicks, and then slid off the seat and headed toward Mushnik’s.

  
The lights were on, of course, but as Orin approached, cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, he realized there was only one person inside. Thank god, he mused, because Mushnik liked to yell at him, or glare at him silently, or whisper things to Audrey as he entered, and it got on his nerves to no end. No, inside the store, by himself, holding a broom—sweeping, maybe?—was Seymour Krelborn.

  
Just Seymour Krelborn.

  
He had met Seymour before. He’d met Seymour a few times, actually—having picked up Audrey from the store often, Seymour was normally standing there. He would tell Orin to wait, tell him Audrey was changing, or doing whatever she did—but he would say it with the confidence of somebody attempting to tell a rabid dog to “stay.” Orin _did,_ he’d wait, but it wasn’t because Seymour told him to. Surprisingly, Seymour had impressed him the first time they’d met: how he’d grown that massive avocado-shaped plant to be that big, Orin had no idea. He had been amazed on that behalf, but Seymour himself fell far short of “impressive” and the awe Orin had felt was quickly replaced by annoyance and mild disdain.

  
Orin strode up to the front door. Seymour had yet to notice him through the window— surprisingly so, really. His engine was loud and his headlights had pointed straight into the store at one point. Seymour seemed otherwise engaged, though, too distracted by his broom to notice a greased-up dentist approaching his shop a bit too early.  
Orin pondered that. How could a person be that focused on _sweeping_ that he didn’t notice somebody approach his store? He stared through the window. Seymour wasn’t sweeping at all. He was _dancing_ , if you could call it that, more-so swaying to the record player on the counter, holding the broom like one would hold a person. Orin could have sworn the broom was leading.  
Orin scoffed. This was one of the most embarrassing, loser-y displays he had ever seen.

  
Well. It was up to him to put a stop to the horrifying performance going on in front of him. Orin whipped the door open. The bell at the top jingled, but just with the headlights and the engine, Seymour did not notice. He didn’t notice the brisk breeze that had followed Orin inside. He was, put lightly, en _grossed_ in this broom and his “dancing.” Orin was getting a free comedy show. He took a long drag on his cigarette and let the smoke billow out of his mouth, watching, grinning.

  
“Hey, kid!” he finally crowed, tapping ash off the end of the cigarette. “Nice moves.”

Seymour physically jumped, clutching the broom to his chest as if he feared Orin was going to take it from him. The record kept playing. Orin hesitated. Dean Martin. A part of him softened. Orin had always loved Martin—of course, because anything Rat Pack related would drive him wild, Sinatra included—and the fact that Seymour, too, liked his music made Orin go through an array of different emotions. “Dino, huh?”

  
Orin dropped the cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his boot. Seymour stuttered something akin to “you—you can’t do that in here—” as Orin approached the counter he was standing in front of. Seymour blanched, unsure of what to do, unsure what _Orin_ was going to do. He glanced at the record, and then at Orin, and finally the floor where his cigarette lay smushed against the linoleum.

  
Orin, once he was prompt in front of Seymour, took the broom quite easily from his hands. “Hey, I—”

  
“You got a pretty shitty dancing partner, kid.” Orin chucked it. Seymour flinched when it landed and clattered against the floor. “Too stiff.”

  
The botanist stared at him, wiping his hands on the front of his slacks nervously, unmoving otherwise.

  
Orin drew Seymour up into a dancing position with him, pressing his palm into the small of Seymour’s back and taking his hand with the other, and then he paused again, glancing toward the record player.

  
“Oh— oh, do you not— do you not like it? I can change it— I can turn it off.” Seymour made a move to squirm out of Orin’s grip, but the dentist stopped him.

  
“No— jeez, kid, no. It’s just— well, we missed my favorite part.” He let Seymour’s hand go, leaning past him to turn the record back and restart it. Seymour stared, dumbfounded. Orin, satisfied with the song, took his hand up again and pressed against the young man.

  
Seymour was staring at him.

  
Orin flashed him a toothy, train-tracks grin, and then pulled him into a swaying motion.

_How lucky can one guy be / I kissed her and she kissed me. . ._

  
Seymour was still staring. Orin spun them, taking obvious lead to the dance considering Seymour had absolutely no clue what to do, on top of the fact that he was quite possibly still in shock.

  
_Like a fella once said / Ain’t that a kick in the head?_

“You’re going to have to dance _with_ me,” Orin pointed out, voice surprisingly soft for somebody who doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body. “Can’t just drag you around, Krelborn.”

  
Seymour seemed to snap out of it, tightening his grip in Orin’s hand and spinning with him, eyes wide, face flushed hot. “Oh—okay. Okay, sure.”

  
_The room was completely black / I hugged her and she hugged back_   
_Like the sailor said, quote: / Ain’t that a hole in the boat?_

  
Orin dipped Seymour low, grinning in his face like he had just won a game of some kind; and Seymour offered him a teensy little smile back, genuine behind his blue eyes. Orin stood him back up, leaning close. Seymour’s face was a bright red. He clutched the leather of Orin’s jacket.  
  
“Orin, I’m— Orin?”

  
Audrey’s voice snapped Orin out of it. She had come out from the back room, clutching her purse in her hand and staring at the pair of them. He fumbled, dropping Seymour and stepping back, feeling a little panicky for the first time in a long time. Dean Martin continued singing.

  
_My head keeps spinnin’ / I go to sleep and keep grinnin’_

  
Audrey furrowed her brow, blonde hair bouncing when she shook her head. “Oh— oh, no, no, don’t stop because of me!” She pressed her purse to her chest. “I didn’t mean to bother you— it’s just, Orin— _Doctor_ , you’re early.”

  
He swallowed, glancing at Seymour, eyes wide, feeling as though his reputation was tarnished somehow. She watched him. Seymour was staring at Audrey, incredibly obvious. Orin let himself relax, ignoring that. “Do you know this song?”  
She giggled, an indication she did, and then sang along softly.

  
_If this is just the beginnin’ / My life is gonna be be-autiful_

  
Orin warmed, a surprising feeling that made his chest feel odd. He sang along too, glancing at Seymour, who visibly tensed and then relaxed and though he did not sing—Orin was convinced he was nervous to—he did this stupid little dance along with the song. It was ridiculous and Seymour looked, put simply, stupid doing it, but for some reason Orin found it almost endearing. He swallowed. Maybe things were— well, maybe they were okay.

  
_She’s tellin’ me we’ll be wed / She’s picked out a king-sized bed I couldn’t feel any better or I’d be sick_   
_Tell me quick / Ain’t that a kick in the head?_


End file.
